Anniversary Gangbang
by Oldnfashioned
Copyright© 2026 by Oldnfashioned
Erotica Sex Story: When three college boys confessed to Julie's husband that she was the hottest woman at the Spring Break resort, he didn't get angry. He invited them to their suite. She swore she’d stick to a strict set of rules, but three hard cocks and her husband’s encouragement made her break every single one.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/Fa Consensual Reluctant Fiction Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism First Facial Oral Sex .
We were supposed to be celebrating twenty years of marriage. That was the plan. Mark had booked the weekend at The Azure Coast, one of those swanky, modernized resorts on the Florida panhandle that usually catered to retirees and couples looking for a quiet spa weekend. We had left our son, Jason, back at college for his sophomore year, and were looking forward to three days of expensive wine, room service, and the kind of sex you can only have when you know no one is going to walk in the front door asking for laundry money.
We pulled up to the valet in our SUV. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon, the sun was blazing, and the salt air smelled crisp. But the moment I stepped out of the air-conditioned car, the bass hit me.
It wasn’t the soft jazz of a high-end lobby. It was the thumping, rhythmic pounding of house music coming from the pool deck around the back.
“Mark?” I asked, adjusting my sunglasses. “Did you check the dates?”
Mark tossed the keys to the valet, a kid who couldn’t have been older than nineteen and was already staring at my legs, and grinned. “It’s a popular spot, Jules. I thought we could use a little energy.”
We walked into the lobby and I immediately realized what “energy” meant. It was Spring Break.
The lobby, usually a sanctuary of marble and orchids, was teeming with flesh. And I mean flesh. There were groups of girls in bikinis that consisted of little more than dental floss and prayers, walking around with sheer sarongs that hid absolutely nothing. There were packs of boys, shirtless, tanned, wearing board shorts and backwards caps, carrying coolers and laughing loudly.
I felt a sudden, sharp pang of insecurity. I instinctively pulled my cardigan tighter around my waist.
“Mark, this is crazy,” I whispered as we stood in the check-in line behind a group of girls who looked like they were barely legal to drive, let alone drink. One of them bent over to adjust her sandal, and I saw everything. No tan lines. Perky, perfect skin.
“Relax, babe,” Mark said, his hand sliding to the small of my back. He squeezed possessively. “It’s just a weekend.”
I looked at the girl again. Then I looked at my reflection in the darkened glass of the concierge desk.
I’m 45. I take care of myself. I hit the gym four days a week, I do Pilates, and I haven’t eaten a carb after 6 PM in a decade. At 5’6” and 135 pounds, I knew I looked good for my age. I had curves where these girls were just sticks, and my breasts, a full 36C, filled out a dress better than they ever could. But standing there, surrounded by the effortless, gravity-defying perfection of twenty-year-olds, I felt ... heavy. I felt like a mom.
“I feel old,” I admitted, my voice low.
Mark leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re the hottest woman in this lobby, Julie. And I’m the one taking you upstairs.”
I looked at him. He was 47, 5’11”, and kept his weight at a solid 185. He still had that broad-shouldered build that I fell for in college, and the gray at his temples just made him look distinguished among this sea of boys who looked like they hadn’t started shaving yet.
I watched his eyes. He wasn’t looking at the girl bending over. He was looking at me. And he had that glint in his eye, the one that usually appeared right before he bent me over the kitchen counter.
“We have a suite,” he told the receptionist, a young guy with bright blue eyes who smiled a little too widely at me.
“Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Miller,” the boy said, handing me the key cards. His fingers brushed mine, lingering for a fraction of a second too long. “You guys need anything, you just call down. I’m Justin.”
“Thanks, Justin,” I said, feeling a slight flush rise in my cheeks.
We headed to the elevator. It was packed. We squeezed in with four guys carrying a case of beer. They smelled like coconut oil and testosterone.
“Excuse us, ma’am,” one of them said, pressing back to make room.
Ma’am. That word always felt like a dagger. It was polite, sure. It was respectful. But it was the word you used for your teacher, or your mother. Not a woman you wanted to fuck.
The boy who said it looked down at me. He had shaggy blonde hair and a smile that was all teeth. He didn’t look away immediately. His eyes traveled from my face, down to the modest V-neck of my blouse, and lingered there.
“You guys having a good time?” Mark asked them, completely unbothered.
“Oh yeah. Best week of the year,” the boy said. He looked at Mark, then back at me. “You guys here to party?”
“It’s our anniversary,” Mark laughed.
When the doors opened on the 10th floor, we stepped out into the quiet hallway. As soon as the door to our suite clicked shut behind us, Mark dropped the bags and pulled me into him.
He kissed me hard, his tongue pushing past my lips, tasting of mints and coffee. His hands went straight to my ass, gripping the denim of my jeans.
“Did you see that kid checking you out?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye.
“He called me ma’am, Mark. He was just being polite.”
“He was staring at your tits, Julie,” Mark corrected me. “I saw him. He couldn’t help himself.”
I scoffed, pulling away to walk toward the balcony, but I couldn’t deny the little flutter in my stomach. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m really not,” he said, following me. “You look incredible.”
I walked out onto the balcony. We had a view of the ocean, but directly below us was the main pool complex. It was a sea of bodies. From up here, it looked like an ant farm of hormones. I watched the girls lounging on chairs, oiling their bodies. I watched the boys diving into the water, showing off, flexing.
It was voyeuristic. Safe. I could watch them from my tower, securely married, securely removed from that messy, desperate game of attraction.
“Let’s go down,” Mark said, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His hands came up to cup my breasts through my shirt. I could feel his hardness pressing against my lower back.
“Down there?” I gestured to the chaos. “I thought we’d order room service.”
“We can do that later. I want a drink. And I want to show off my wife.”
I hesitated. The insecurity flared again. But then Mark bit my neck, right on that sensitive cord of muscle, and I felt my nipples harden.
“Okay,” I whispered. “ let me change.”
I went into the bedroom and opened my suitcase. I had packed two swimsuits. One was a sensible, expensive black one-piece with a plunging neckline—sexy, but classy. The other was a bikini I’d bought online three weeks ago during a moment of confidence, then immediately regretted. It was a dark emerald green two-piece. The bottoms weren’t a thong, but they were definitely “cheeky,” cut high on the leg. The top was a halter that pushed my breasts together and up.
I reached for the black one-piece.
“No,” Mark said from the doorway. He was already shucking off his shirt, revealing his chest. “The green one.”
“Mark, that one is tiny. I can’t wear that down there. I’m twice the age of those girls.”
“And you have twice the ass,” he said, walking over. He took the black suit from my hand and tossed it on the bed. He picked up the green bikini bottoms and held them out to me. “Put it on. For me.”
I sighed, pretending to be annoyed, but my pulse was racing. I stripped off my jeans and panties. I watched Mark watching me. He didn’t blink. I stepped into the green bottoms and pulled them up. They hugged my hips perfectly, but when I turned to the mirror, I saw just how much of my ass was exposed.
I turned sideways. My stomach was flat, thank you, yoga, but there was a softness there that hadn’t been there at twenty. My thighs touched. But my skin was smooth, tanned from the salon visits I’d snuck in last week.
I hooked the top. My cleavage was undeniable.
“Perfect,” Mark groaned.
“I need a cover-up,” I stated firmly. I grabbed a sheer white sarong and tied it around my waist. It offered a veil of modesty, but you could clearly see the outline of my ass and legs through the fabric.
We took the elevator down. This time, it was empty. I checked my reflection in the mirrored doors one last time. I stood up straighter, throwing my shoulders back.
When we walked out to the pool deck, the heat and noise washed over us. It was a sensory overload. The smell of coconut oil, chlorine, and spilled beer. The sound of a DJ spinning some remix of a pop song.
We found two lounge chairs near the bar. As I took off my sandals, I felt eyes on me. Not the polite glances of other middle-aged couples. I felt the hungry, unpolished stares of the boys nearby.
I sat down and went to untie my sarong, then hesitated.
“Take it off,” Mark whispered, leaning over from his chair. He had his sunglasses on, but I knew exactly where he was looking.
I untied the knot and let the white fabric pool around my hips. I laid back, exposing my body to the sun and the crowd.
“Can I get you guys something?”
I looked up. A waiter, another college-aged kid, tall, with board shorts and a polo shirt that strained against his biceps, was standing over us. He was looking right at my chest. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.
“Mojito,” I said, my voice dry.
“Beer for me,” Mark said.
“You got it,” the kid said. He gave me a wink, a literal wink, and walked off.
“Did you see that?” Mark laughed. “He was undressing you with his eyes.”
“He’s working for tips, Mark.”
“He’s working for a view,” he corrected. “Look at him.”
I glanced over. The waiter was at the bar, talking to another guy. He gestured toward our chairs. The other guy looked over. I quickly looked away, picking up my magazine, but I felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the Florida sun.
I couldn’t help but look around. To my left, a group of three boys were playing catch with a football in the shallow end. They were loud, energetic. One of them, a dark-haired boy with chiseled abs, caught the ball and looked directly at me. He smiled. It wasn’t a predatory smile. It was just ecstatic, happy, and appreciative.
“Hi,” he mouthed.
I looked at Mark to see if he saw. Mark was watching the boy, then he looked at me and grinned. He nodded at the kid.
The boy dunked his friend, and they went back to wrestling in the water.
“They’re children,” I whispered to Mark, scandalized but secretly thrilled.
“They’re men, Julie. And they think you’re hot.” Mark reached over and rested his hand on my thigh, his thumb rubbing the skin just below the hem of my bikini bottom. “Does it turn you on?”
“Mark!”
“Tell me,” he pressed. “Does it turn you on knowing that while all these little girls in thongs are running around, these boys are staring at you?”
I took a deep breath. The sun was hot on my skin. I felt the dampness in my bikini bottom.
“I ... I have to admit, it’s flattering,” I whispered.
“It’s more than flattering,” he said. “It’s the truth.”
We spent the afternoon drinking and watching. I relaxed. I started to notice that Mark was right. The girls were pretty, sure. But they were messy. They were loud. They were insecure in their own way, constantly checking their phones, fixing their hair.
I just lay there. A 45-year-old woman with a husband who couldn’t keep his hands off her leg.
By the time the sun started to dip, turning the sky a bruised purple, I was buzzed and feeling bolder. We gathered our things to head up and change for dinner.
As we walked past the shallow end, the dark-haired boy who had smiled at me earlier hopped out of the pool. He was dripping wet, water running down his chest in rivulets.
“Heading out?” he asked. He stopped right in front of us, blocking our path slightly. His friends were watching from the water.
“Dinner time,” Mark said easily.
“Shame,” the kid said. He looked at me. “I liked the view.”
My jaw dropped slightly. It was so brazen. So unfiltered.
“Have a good night, guys,” Mark said, taking my elbow and steering me toward the doors. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded proud.
In the elevator, Mark pushed me against the wall as soon as the doors closed. He kissed me, grinding his hips against mine.
“You heard him,” Mark murmured against my lips. “He liked the view.”
“He was drunk,” I said, breathless.
“He was hard,” Mark countered. “I saw it in his trunks.”
We got to the room, and the energy shifted. We showered together, soaping each other up, but Mark wouldn’t let us finish.
“Not yet,” he said, turning off the water while I was still trembling. “Save it. I want you desperate tonight.”
We got dressed for dinner. I sat at the vanity, applying my makeup with precision. I did my eyes dark, smoky and dramatic. I put on a deep red lipstick.
Then came the dress. I had brought a few, but Mark went into the closet and pulled out the one I usually saved for New Year’s Eve. It was a black bandage dress. It was tight, second skin tight. It hit mid-thigh, showing off the legs I’d spent hours toning on the StairMaster. It had a low, square neckline that framed my cleavage like a shelf.
“That one,” he ordered.
I slipped into it. It required some wiggling. When I zipped it up, I did my mirror check.
Heels added three inches, putting me at 5’9”. The dress compressed everything into an hourglass. My waist looked tiny. My boobs looked massive.
“Underwear?” Mark asked, watching me from the bed.
I lifted the hem of the dress. I was wearing a matching black lace thong and garter set I had put on after the shower. The stockings were sheer black.
“Good,” he said. He stood up and walked over to me. He stood behind me in the mirror. He looked handsome in his dark jeans and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
“You look dangerous,” he said.
“I feel ridiculous,” I lied. “I feel like I’m trying too hard.”
“You look like a woman who knows exactly what she’s worth,” he whispered. “And tonight, I have a feeling you’re going to get a lot of confirmation.”
He grabbed my purse and handed it to me.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he said. “The bar is going to be packed.”
“With college kids,” I reminded him.
“Exactly,” he smiled. “Fresh meat.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew, logically, that we were just going to dinner. We were a married couple on our anniversary. But looking at Mark, seeing the hunger in his eyes, and remembering the way that boy at the pool had looked at me ... I felt a shift.
The mundane wife, the one who worried about groceries and tuition and whether the gutters needed cleaning, was staying in the room.
The woman walking out the door was someone else. She was a hot wife. A piece of ass.
And as the elevator dinged, carrying us down toward the pulsing music of the hotel bar, I realized I was already wet.
“Lead the way,” I said.
Mark rested his hand on the small of my back, right where the zipper of my dress ended.
“Let’s go see who wants to dance,” he said.
The bar, “The Cobalt Room,” was less of a room and more of a sensory assault. If the lobby had been busy, this place was a riot. The lighting was low, bathed in deep blues and purples, strobing in time with a bass line that I felt in my chest before I even stepped off the elevator.
The air was thick. It smelled of expensive perfume, cheap body spray, sweat, and Red Bull.
Mark held my hand tightly as we navigated the crowd. It was wall-to-wall bodies. Girls in tiny skirts that barely covered their asses, guys in polo shirts appearing to try and out-drink each other. I felt absurdly overdressed in my bandage dress, like a chaperone who had wandered into the prom, except the chaperone was wearing a push-up bra and thigh-high stockings.
“Table over there,” Mark shouted over the music.
He guided me to a high-top table in the corner. It gave us a vantage point of the entire room, specifically the dance floor, which was a writhing mass of limbs.
Mark ordered us drinks, a bourbon for him, a dirty martini for me. I sipped it quickly, needing the liquid courage.
“Relax,” Mark said, leaning in close. His hand found my knee under the table. His thumb traced the inside of my thigh, right where the stocking met the skin. “You look tense.”
“I feel like everyone is staring,” I said.
“They are,” he replied simply. “Look around, Jules. You’re the Ferrari in a lot full of Honda Civics.”
I looked. He wasn’t wrong. I caught eyes. A group of guys at the bar. A pair of boys walking past us. They looked at the girls on the dance floor, sure, but their eyes lingered on me. There was a weight to my presence. I wasn’t just ‘skin’ like the girls; I was a woman. I was forbidden fruit.
I was finishing my martini when a shadow fell over our table.
“Mrs. Miller?”
I looked up. It was the waiter from the pool. Justin. And he wasn’t alone. He had two friends with him. They were the boys who had been wrestling in the pool earlier.
Up close, in the dim light, they looked even better. Justin was tall, maybe 6’2”, with broad shoulders that filled out his button-down shirt. The buttons were straining. His friends, I found out later were Tyler and Cody—were equally fit. Tyler had that messy blonde hair and a grin that spelled trouble. Cody looked a little younger, maybe twenty, with dark eyes that were currently glued to my cleavage.
“Justin,” I said, surprised. “You’re not working?”
“Shift ended an hour ago,” he grinned. His eyes raked over my dress. “Wow. You look ... different than at the pool.”
“Different good?” Mark asked, leaning back in his chair, completely at ease. He held his bourbon glass loosely, looking like the king of the castle.
“Different amazing, sir,” Justin said. “Respectfully.”
“Respectfully,” Tyler echoed, stepping closer. He smelled of Old Spice and beer. It was a nostalgic, intoxicating smell. “We were just saying that your wife is the best-looking woman in here.”
My face heated up. “You boys are drunk,” I said, trying to sound maternal but failing as my voice dropped a register.
“Maybe a little,” Justin admitted. “But we’re not blind. We’re heading to the dance floor. You should come.”
I laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. “Oh, no. I don’t dance. And my husband definitely doesn’t dance.”
I looked at Mark for backup. Mark hates dancing. At our own wedding, he swayed for three minutes and then sat down.
Mark looked at the boys, then at me. He took a slow sip of his bourbon.
“She’s right,” Mark said. “I don’t dance.”
“Shame,” Justin said, looking disappointed. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “Come on. Just one song? It’s our spring break. Be the cool mom.”
He realized his mistake immediately. “I mean ... be the cool ... woman.”
Mark laughed. “Go ahead, Julie.”
I froze. “What?”
“Go dance,” Mark said. “These gentlemen are asking politely. I’ll watch the drinks.”
“Mark, I can’t...” I started.
“Go,” Mark ordered. It wasn’t a suggestion. His eyes darkened. “Show them how it’s done.”
My body betrayed me before my brain caught up. My nipples grazed the fabric of my dress, hard as pebbles. My pussy gave a reactionary clench, releasing a little moisture into my thong.
“One song,” I warned Justin.
“Yes, ma’am,” he beamed.
Justin reached out a hand. I took it. He pulled me off the stool. I wobbled for a second in my heels, and Tyler was there instantly, his hand steadying me by grabbing my waist. His grip was firm.
They led me into the throng.
The dance floor was a different world. It was hot. The body heat was oppressive and arousing. We pushed into the center. The song changed, something with a heavy, driving beat and lyrics about sweat and sex.
The three of them formed a triangle around me. A protective, predatory circle.
At first, I danced like a mom at a wedding. Little sways of the hips, keeping my distance.
“Come on, Mrs. Miller,” Tyler shouted over the music. He was behind me. “You can do better than that.”
He put his hands on my hips.
I stiffened.
I looked back at the table. Mark was sitting there, turning his glass in his hand. He was looking right at me. He saw Tyler’s hands. He raised his glass in a mock salute.
I surrendered.
I let Tyler pull me back. My ass bumped against his thighs. I closed my eyes and let the rhythm take over. I started to move my hips in a figure-eight, grinding slowly.
“Fuck,” I heard Tyler breathe in my ear.
Justin was in front of me. He wasn’t touching me yet, but he was dancing close. His eyes were locked on my chest, watching my boobs bounce in the tight restrictions of the bandage dress.
“You move really well,” Justin yelled.
“Years of practice,” I yelled back.
The music shifted again, getting dirtier, slower. The crowd compressed. We were pushed together.
Now there was no space. Justin stepped in, his legs slotting between mine. I could feel his thighs against my thighs. Tyler was pressed against my back. Cody was on my side, his hand tentatively reaching out to touch my arm, then sliding down to my waist.
I was being dry-humped by three college students in the middle of a crowded bar, and my husband was watching.
The sensation was overwhelming. I was drowning in them. The smell of them, clean sweat, alcohol, youth, filled my nose.
I felt Tyler get bolder. His hands slid from my hips down the side of my dress. He cupped my ass. Not a squeeze, but a firm hold, pulling my ass into his crotch.
I felt it. The unmistakable ridge of a hard cock pressed against my tailbone.
Oh my god.
I gasped. I should have pulled away. I should have slapped him.
Instead, I pushed back.
Tyler groaned. I felt his cock twitch against me. It was hard. Substantial.
“You feel that?” Tyler whispered in my ear. “That’s for you.”
“You’re bad,” I hissed, turning my head slightly.
“You like it,” he countered.
I looked at Justin. He saw what Tyler was doing. He smiled, a lazy, lust-filled expression. He moved closer, putting his hands on my waist.
“My turn,” Justin said.
They rotated. This was sophisticated choreography for drunk boys. Suddenly Justin was behind me, and Tyler was in front.
Justin was taller. When he pressed against my back, his cock hit me higher up, right in the curve of my lower back. He was as hard as Tyler. He ground against me with no shame.
“Mrs. Miller,” Justin whispered, his lips grazing my neck. “You have no idea what you’re doing to us.”
“I think I do,” I murmured.
My pussy was soaking wet. I could feel the slickness between my legs. The lace of my thong was damp. I imagined what I looked like to Mark. A woman in a tight black dress, disappearing into a sea of male bodies.
I looked for Mark again. The crowd parted for a second.
Mark wasn’t just watching. His hand was under the table. I knew that posture. He was touching himself. In the middle of the bar.
Seeing him like that, watching me be manhandled by these boys, snapped the last thread of my inhibition.
I turned around to face Justin. I put my arms around his neck. I threw my head back.
“Show me,” I challenged him.
Justin grabbed my ass with both hands. He lifted me slightly, pressing his crotch into my supreme heat. I wrapped one leg around his calf.
“Damn,” Cody said from the side. “She’s ... fuck.”
We danced like that for three songs. Grinding. Rubbing. Hands exploring. Tyler touched the side of my breast. I didn’t stop him. Justin’s hand slid up my thigh, his fingers hooking the edge of the bandage dress, threatening to hike it up.
“Boys,” I finally gasped, pulling back as the song ended. “I need ... I need a drink.”
I was flushed, sweating, and breathless. My heart was hammering a mile a minute.
“Don’t go,” Justin pleaded, holding my hand.
“My husband,” I reminded him. “He’s waiting.”
“Boy is he lucky,” Tyler muttered, looking at my ass.
I extricated myself from the triangle. I walked back to the table. My legs felt shaky. My dress had ridden up, and I had to tug it down as I walked. I knew my hair was messy. I looked like I’d just been fucked.
When I got to the table, Mark stood up. His eyes were darker. He smelled of bourbon and lust.
“Have fun?” he asked. His voice was rough.
“They ... they were handsy,” I confessed, whispering. “Mark, they touched my ass. I felt ... everything.”
“You felt their cocks,” Mark corrected me. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from my face.
“Yes,” I admitted. “They were hard.”
“Good,” Mark said. He threw a fifty-dollar bill on the table for the drinks. He grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Room. Now.”
I risked one look back at the dance floor. The three boys were standing there, watching us leave. Justin raised a hand in a wave. He looked sad, like a puppy who lost his favorite chew toy.
Tyler pointed at his own crotch and shrugged, mouthing, Blue balls.
I felt a thrill shoot through me.
Mark marched me to the elevator. He didn’t speak. He just held my arm, his grip tight. When the doors closed, he didn’t wait.
He pushed me into the corner. He hiked my dress up to my waist.
“Mark, the cameras,” I gasped.
“Fuck the cameras,” he growled.
He shoved his hand into my panties.
“Jesus, Julie,” he hissed. “You’re soaked.”
“They turned me on,” I whined, seeing my own reflection in the metal doors, dress scruched up, husband’s hand buried between my legs. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he ordered, finding my clit and rubbing it hard, exactly how I needed. “You liked their hands on you?”
“Yes.”
“You liked feeling their stiff cocks against your ass?”
“Yes! God, Mark, yes.”
“Slut,” he whispered affectionately.
The elevator dinged at our floor. He pulled his hand out. My juices were glistening on his fingers. He held them up to my face.
“Start walking,” he said. “Before I fuck you in the hallway.”
I walked to the room, my panties soaked, my body humming, knowing that Mark was going to fuck me to oblivion.
A dirty thought crossed my mind.
Blue balls, the boy had said.
I thought about helping him with that.
I woke up the next morning feeling like I had been hit by a very sexy truck. My body ached in the good places, inner thighs, lower back, and there was a faint bruise on my hip from where Mark had gripped me last night. We had fucked like teenagers. Messy, loud, aggressive sex that left the sheets tangled and both of us exhausted.
But as I lay there, listening to the ocean breeze rustle the curtains, my mind drifted instantly to the dance floor. The heat. The hands. The undeniable pressure of three different erections pressed against my backside.
Mark was already up. I could smell coffee.
I pulled on a silk robe and wandered into the living area of the suite. Mark was on the balcony, reading on his iPad, wearing just his boxers. He looked content. Smug, even.
“Morning, killer,” he said without looking up.
“Coffee,” I grunted, pouring a cup from the Nespresso machine. “My head is pounding.”
“Martinis will do that,” he chuckled. He put the iPad down and looked at me. “How’s the rest of you?”
“Sore,” I admitted. I walked over and sat on his lap. He groaned appreciatively. “Happy Anniversary.”
“Best one yet,” he said, kissing my temple. “Get dressed. We need to secure prime real estate at the pool.”
I groaned. “The pool? Can’t we just hide up here?”
“And deprive your fan club?” Mark teased. “Come on. Hair of the dog. Bloody Marys by the water.”
I relented. This time, there was no debate about the swimsuit. I put the green bikini back on. It felt even skimpier today, maybe because I knew exactly what kind of attention it garnered. I tied the white sarong around my waist again, but looser this time.
We went down around 11 AM. The pool was already busy, but the energy was different. It was the “Hangover Shift.” The music was softer, more reggae than techno. People were moving slower, hiding behind sunglasses, clutching iced coffees like life rafts.
We found two chairs under an umbrella near the deep end. I laid out my towel, adjusted my top to maximize cleavage and lay back. Mark ordered us drinks.
I closed my eyes, trying to relax, but my internal radar was pinging. I felt exposed.
“Mrs. Miller?”
My eyes snapped open.
Standing at the foot of my lounge chair were the Three Musketeers. Justin, Tyler, and Cody.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.